


Children of the Stone

by queercyberpunk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:45:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2688170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queercyberpunk/pseuds/queercyberpunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A dwarf. Maker, he's falling for a dwarf."</p><p>(A collection of drabbles surrounding Edric Cadash and Dorian Pavus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A dwarf. Maker, he’s falling for a dwarf.

Dorian pictures his Mother’s scandalized look of horror if she found out. He can visualize his Father’s lip curled with disgust. Dorian was falling in love with a man that stood only to his chest, and perhaps even worse, didn’t possess a hint of magic. 

The glorious, carefully pedigreed Pavus line would end with one handsome, thick-armed dwarf. A dwarf who couldn’t dream, who didn’t have a single spark of magic in him.

Dorian couldn’t think of a cleverer irony, a more apt joke played on his entire lineage. 

His father often droned of how perverse his proclivities were and how shameful; therefore this truth should be guarded carefully, locked tightly behind impenetrable walls of propriety and duty.

But Skyhold is different. He takes walks with Edric, and sometimes he even dares to clasp his hand. Edric doesn’t seem to be touched by the lingering shame burnt into Dorian. 

"What was it like, in the Carta?" Dorian asks one morning as they lay in bed. Early light bathes them in pale colors from the stained glass windows, painting Edric’s sturdy torso in swatches of blue, red, and yellow. 

"How do you mean?" Edric queries, planting a small kiss on Dorian’s shoulder. 

"I mean…being interested in men, as you are. What was it like?"

Edric tilts his head back for a moment, staring at the ceiling as he thinks. “We didn’t talk about it, really. I took care of the bloody work, and I was…” Edric tries to conjure the right word. “I was feared, I suppose. Maybe respected is a better word, but there was fear there, too. I dealt with traitors in the Carta as well as external threats. I don’t think any of them had to stones to bring it up.”

"Worried that the big, bad Cadash might lodge an arrow in their neck?" Dorian teases, quirking a brow. 

"Something like that," Edric laughs. "And besides. It was the Carta. We were all outsiders."

That strikes something in Dorian. An outsider—that is something he understands so painfully well. “Are you glad to be free of it?” Dorian asks, not able to contain his mounting curiosity. Dorian’s own desire for knowledge, both pedantic and personal, is difficult to sate.

"Hm," Edric grunts, "I hadn’t thought much about it. The food’s better here."

"Truly?" Dorian says, chuckling. "If the mediocre fare they serve here is palatable to you, then I quiver to think of what you were eating before."

"Have you ever tried roasted nug?" Edric asks, smiling a little mischievously.

"You jest," Dorian retorts, lip curling in disgust.

"Regardless, I’m glad I’m here, with you," Edric says, smiling that lopsided grin of his. Dorian is utterly weak for that smile. He leans down to kiss Edric, and Edric meets him with enthusiasm. Their mouths move in and out like tide and their hands roam across plains of bare skin. Dorian’s skin is smooth and unblemished, while Edric’s is fraught with scars. Dorian admires the uneven topography of Edric’s chest; he explores every inch of it with relish. 

"Tell me," Edric says, breath fanning across Dorian’s cheek, "why the sudden interest in the Carta?"

"You know all about me and my past. I think it’s only fair I ought to know a little of yours."

"Well," Edric says, his hand combing lightly through Dorian’s hair and coming to rest on his neck, "now’s your chance to ask."

"How did you join?"

"It was a family business. Both my parents died on jobs, so I was raised by my Uncle. He was decent to me, but harsh. I had to pull my own weight."

"Even as a child?"

"I started in the smuggling business when I was about fourteen. That was when I went on my first job. I tried very hard to…impress. I wanted approval. And more than anything, I wanted to go to Orzammar." Edric’s smile is pained by nostalgia.

"The casteless aren’t allowed into Orzammar, if I recall correctly?"

Edric nods. “As a boy, I had constructed an elaborate fantasy. I dreamed about going to Orzammar, seeing the pride of the dwarves and the Hall of Heroes. When you gain enough esteem in the Carta, they send you on more covert, risky jobs; the Carta has ways of smuggling surfacers into Orzammar and I wanted nothing more than to go. To finally feel what it meant to be a dwarf. To maybe feel like I belonged.”

"And did you go?" Dorian asks.

"I did. And then I saw Dust Town and how the casteless really lived. The Carta is spat upon by all down there. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so hated." 

"I’m sorry," Dorian says, the pad of his thumb making gentle circles on Edric’s cheek. 

"That was a long time ago. Growing up on the surface, I realized I had no connection to Orzammar, or to any of its tradition. The only thing Orzammar dwarves and I had in common was our height." Edric’s laugh is jagged and bitter. "So I went back to doing what I did best. Smuggling lyrium and killing people." Edric places a hand on Dorian’s chest, trailing it downwards. "Although I can’t say I regret leaving the Carta, or any of this Herald madness. It means that I’m here."

Dorian heart twists strangely inside his chest, but he masks it with his cavalier humor. “I can imagine why you didn’t fit in at Orzammar. You haven’t even a proper beard.”

"Do you think I should grow one? Perhaps you can braid it for me once it gets long enough."

"Maker, no!" Dorian says in mock horror. 

It grows suddenly quiet. Edric meets Dorian’s eyes unabashedly; those eyes are green as the jagged mark across his palm. 

"You’re beautiful," Edric says, his smile awash with tenderness.

"I know, but it always bears repeating" Dorian answers, his own defensive humor rising up to guard him. His father’s voice still echoes in him, with words like ‘unnatural’ and ‘wrong’ wracking his mind. Reason tells Dorian not to indulge in tenderness, to never expect more than he can have. Experience tells Dorian this will only hurt more.

His Father once called him a slave to his desires. And it is so strange that here, with this dwarf, he has never felt more free.


	2. Chapter 2

I would like to go somewhere quiet, Dorian says. 

Edric nods, solemn as they return to Skyhold. I know a place, Edric answers. 

He brings Dorian to his quarters and he drags two finely crafted chairs to the balcony. Dorian settles himself onto the plush chair and breathes in the crisp mountain air. 

It’s nothing like Minrathous. The marketplace there smelled of sweat and humidity and poverty. All the vulgar odors of life would converge on Dorian’s senses. Home smelled of heavy perfumes and incense, always burning. Mother loved her incense. 

But here, the air is simply clean. It’s pure. Dorian fills his lungs to the brim. 

Edric pulls out a roughly carved pipe and fills it with elfroot. Would you mind sparking this for me? he asks.

Dorian obliges, conjuring a flame that ignites the herb. The earthy musk of burning elfroot carries on the brisk wind. Edric smokes his pipe in silence, plumes of thick smoke billowing from him as he idly exhales.

It’s a view like no other. Dramatic mountain ranges rise up against the endless sky, their proud forms capped with snow. The world seems limitless from their perch. It seems distant and remote and in that sense, beautiful. Dorian supposes distance is proportional to beauty.

 Dorian closes his eyes and tries to cleanse himself with mountain air that burns. It burns like the words that rolled from his tongue, the spittle that leaked from his mouth like acid. Scalding anger and hot resentment that bubbled and frothed like madness. 

His father’s eyes. The empty tavern. Edric beside him. 

A confession. Green eyes—encouraging, supporting. Dorian feeling so close to crumbling. The mask of irreverence melting, dripping down his chin like molten tears. 

Edric has seen it. The anger, rage, shame—the Pavus family legacy. Dorian watches this man, this dwarf, who does not balk at his outbursts, or at his ugliness. He sees the brand Dorian bears and sits so calmly, breathing smoke that crowns him with a hazy wreath. He does not pry, does not ask.

Dorian eyes are closed again, and a phantasmagoria of memories erupt in the darkness. They sear his mind’s eye, and they refuse to be forgotten. He remembers the blood sacrifice, mouth agape and eyes sightless. The price for the ritual to  _change_  him. The toll for Dorian’s nature. An elven servant who often brought him breakfast, who made his bed and laundered his clothes. Her chest carved open, her face a waxen mask of horror.

Desire destroys and consumes. It smolders and catches fire and becomes wild, indiscriminate. It mars you and it marks you. These things Dorian holds to be true. 

Why didn’t you let me leave? Dorian asks, voice hoarse as it escapes chapped lips. 

You stayed because you wanted to, Edric answers. He drags deeply of his pipe. Dorian watches him carefully—The Inquisitor, Lord Cadash, The Herald of Andraste, The Last Great Hope For Thedas. The man of a thousand grandiose titles.

You stayed, Edric says, because that was a bridge you didn’t want to burn.


	3. Chapter 3

"Ah, here he comes, the Herald of Andraste himself! Here to grace me with his presence, no doubt." Dorian folds the corner of his page. It's an atrocious habit, but he can't seem to break himself of it. 

"I wish they'd stop calling me that," Edric mutters, looking unusually surly. 

"What happened? Come, sit, tell Dorian everything."

"And now you're talking about yourself in third person," Edric says, and Dorian swears he catches the Inquisitor rolling his eyes. Nevertheless, Edric sits down next to Dorian. Their knees brush, and Dorian takes a sharp breath. Oh, so they're playing this game, then? he thinks.

When they're refilling their stock at camp, or hosting a dinner full of dignitaries, or simply just in Dorian's customary haunt in Skyhold, Edric always touches him. It's gentle, initially, so soft Dorian might almost miss it. First, it's knees brushing, then their elbows bump. It's not long before an errant finger is against his thigh, light and promising. The touches grow bolder, more obvious. Dorian knows its coming and falls for it every time. By the time they make it to the bedroom, Edric already has Dorian wrapped around his finger.

He remembers the feast Josephine threw just a week ago; Edric had managed to get his hand entirely under Dorian's robes beneath the cover of the embroidered tablecloth. Just then, they were approached by some Orlesian stuffed-shirt who subjected them to a fifteen minute long chat about trade in Orzammar. Those fingers, short and broad, had continued to explore beneath the tablecloth. Edric had maintained a perfect veneer of focus on the conversation, while Dorian was simply struggling not to moan aloud. 

"...there's money in traveling  _deep_ into those lost thaigs. Although I've heard it's so dark and  _wet_ down there, utterly infested by darkspawn.  _Hardly_  worth the risk, wouldn't you say, Dorian?" Edric had smiled with such transparent innocence.

Dorian had clenched his teeth as that hand beneath his robe traveled up and up and up...

"Hardly," he had replied, aiming for aloof but only achieving a strained answer. 

The rest of the dinner had been a slow, vicious torture. It had seemed a cruel eternity until they slipped away to Edric's quarters, discarding their finery in a trail from the door to the bed.

Today, Edric doesn't look teasing; today, he just looks weary. Edric's thigh brushes against his, but it's not as goading as it was before.

"Should I begin to write pamphlets? 'Herald of Andraste Renounces Title!' It'll become a bestseller in no time at all. The Chantry will peddle it across Thedas." 

"Hilarious," Edric says, leaning into Dorian. Dorian shifts himself to accommodate Edric, his arm wrapping around Edric and pulling him in a little closer. Edric sighs, leaning his head back into Dorian's shoulder. "I'm a dwarf. A sodding Carta member. Not some divine prophet. And some of them actually believe that I am. Some of the letters I receive..."

"You mean the ones that aren't denouncing your as a heretic, or threatening to murder you?"

Edric breathes deeply. "Those aren't the ones that trouble me. I'm not fit to be a prophet for a religion that isn't even mine."

"Ah, so you're not Andrastian?" Dorian finds himself smiling. The world seems bent on forging some great and terrible practical joke on all of Thedas. A Holy War with a dwarf at the helm, his hand shoved up the robes of Tevinter mage. 

"I was raised believing in The Stone. I don't know the first thing about Andraste or any of these bloody Canticles. I don't know who that woman was in the rift. I never claimed--"

"Yes," Dorian interrupts smoothly, "but you took up the sword. You became their Inquisitor. Whether you intended it or not, that became their truth."

"The truth is nugshit," Edric says. 

Dorian chuckles at that, realigning a stray hair from Edric's forehead. "So tell me about your truth, then."

"I was raised believing in The Stone. We came from The Stone, and she nurtures us, gives us everything we need to sustain ourselves. She shelters us and provides us her gifts. We come from the earth and when we die, we are given back to it. We're connected, and it's that connection that guides us."

"I like it," Dorian says, now stroking Edric's chestnut hair. "But it does beg the question of how The Stone was created."

"I'm no theologian. I was just raised believe that we're all children of The Stone and we'll return to her one day. I'm so often called The Herald of Andraste, I might actually start to believe it." Edric closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose. Dorian admires him, curled up in the crook of his arm like a cat. He's so fierce and so cutthroat at times, at others so vulnerable and soft.

"And what if it is true?" Dorian queries. "What if it was Andraste, reaching out her hand to you?"

 Edric is quiet for a time, content to let the question linger as Dorian runs his fingers lightly across Edric's scalp. Finally, he breaks the silence, his half-smile a little forlorn. "Then she has quite the sense of humor."

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Dorian moves with magic more surely than we walks. He's all fire and grandiosity, flashiness and daring. A firestorm spins like a web around him and yet the edges of his fine robes never seem singed. 

His staff arcs overhead, the grass around him scorched and smoking as his hands maneuver that long staff Edric had had crafted for him. He's smirking, bold and taunting, as the templars catch and burn like kindling. Their screams are grotesque, their frenzied panic rising. Dorian relishes these things; his magic has always been dangerous and volatile. When he hears the screams, he knows his magic has found its mark.

Edric is not far to his left, stringing arrows as he skirts the battlefield, always searching for a better vantage, a higher elevation. A templar manages to get past Cassandra, and he barrels towards Edric. Edric is stringing arrows with unbroken focus, but the templar is closer than Dorian would like. 

Dorian twists his staff and calls upon his magic. His horror spell finds the templar and then the man is screaming, screaming, screaming. It's a symphony Dorian knows intimately. 

Edric reaches into his quiver then places his right knee on the ground, his left foot still flush against it. He uses all the power of his stocky arms to yank the bowstring back. His bow trembles with the effort of the full draw and with a sharp  _twang_ , Edric releases the arrow. It slides into the small, vulnerable notch where helm meets armor and a spray of blood coats the templar's proud silver breastplate. He's still screaming as he falls, arrow jutting from him and limbs flailing in utter terror. 

Cassandra roars in front of them, her sword and shield both equally effective weapons as she keeps the templars' attention. Dorian would stand behind that woman in front of anything. Dorian has trouble keeping track of Cole, who seems to dissipate as soon as he appears. He materializes behind enemies, knives sliding across their throats, and then he's gone again, winking out of view. It's quick and efficient, and nothing like the drawn-out agony of burning fire or the abject horror of necromancy.

Dorian isn't prepared for the powerful smite that crushes his chest, driving him down to the ground. His vision blurs for a moment, and  _Maker,_  it hurts.

He uses his staff to help him to his feet, trying to summon magic. He's alarmed to find that the smite has robbed him, momentarily, of accessing it. " _Fasta vass,_ " he curses, hands still trembling a little from the shock of the blow. More templars have arrived, and Cassandra is struggling to keep them at bay. Edric is still firing off a steady stream of arrows, but defenders have taken point and knock them aside with heavy shields. Dorian can't place Cole, though he knows the boy is lurking somewhere. 

Edric is rushing to him then. The templars are attempting to flank them, the two defenders occupying Cassandra whilst the others rush in to neutralize ranged opponents, namely Dorian and Edric. Edric reaches into his pack and pulls a handful of caltrops. He scatters them across the uneven, scorched grass with a lopsided grin. "Ought to slow them down for a bit," he says. "Come on."

Dorian follows swiftly behind Edric, despite the aching in the center of his chest. The templars are behind them, but their cumbersome armor hinders their speed. Dorian sees where Edric is leading them--to a small, sloping outcrop. Once they climb up it, the only way down is either through templars or a perilously high drop.

"Brilliant," Dorian says, "now we're pigeonholed."

"No," Edric says, drawing an arrow from his quiver, "now we have a choke point. Can you give me a wall of fire?" 

Dorian reaches for his magic again, feels it flickering dimly inside of him. "We'll see, shall we?" Dorian says, freeing a lyrium potion from his belt and pulling the cork out with his teeth. 

Edric notches an arrow then fires it at the first approaching templar. It catches him in the shoulder. He stumbles, but continues to advance. 

"Could use that fire right about now," Edric says, reaching into his quiver and keeping his eyes fixed on his targets.

"Have a little faith, would you?" Dorian says, and this time the magic pours from him. A wall of fire erupts between them and the templars, and the templars stagger backwards, shielding themselves from its scorching, unnatural heat. Edric begins to send off arrows with ferocious rapidity. Dorian whirls his staff around him as the fire rages before them.

Two of the templars are felled and two are left, one of which manages to cleanse a path through the fire. "Brace yourself," Edric says, firing an arrow that is batted aside by a shield.

Edric replaces the bow on his back and unsheathes a dagger from his belt. Close-quarters fighting was not his specialty, but he was scrappy and a tricky fighter. Dorian reaches to his belt for another lyrium potion, but his hand gropes at nothing.

The first templar advances and Edric releases a handful of powder into her face. She falls back suddenly, her body collapsing onto the templar behind her. The both hit the ground hard, and Edric seizes the moment. His daggers embeds itself in the unconscious woman's neck, soaking his hand a bright red. The templar behind her has recovered his footing, and sends Edric flying with a vicious shield bash, dagger spinning from his grip. 

Dorian sends out small plumes of fire from his staff, but the templar tilts his shield to deflect it. Of course, he's been extensively trained to neutralize magical opponents. " _Venhedis_ ," Dorian hisses. His pool of magic is too meager to cast anything substantial. Edric is trying to stand, still reeling from that pulverizing blow. Edric struggles to his feet and draws his bow, having no other weaponry at his disposal.

"Cole!" Dorian finds himself howling, hoping the ghost boy might emerge to help them.

The templar is upon Edric, flashing sword poised to strike him down. Edric uses his bow to stop the killing blow, and the polished wood strains beneath the weight of steel. The wood splinters and the sword flashes and Dorian finds himself shouting.

And then there's fire. Dorian forces the magic to the surface and the strain of it nearly buckles his knees. The fireball engulfs the templar and familiar screams echo.

  Cole is there then, stepping lightly out of thin air. He kills the burning templar with a flash of daggers and finally the man falls. Dorian is hurrying to Edric, residual, smarting pain still heavy in his chest. He used too much energy conjuring that fireball and now he fights the urge to close his eyelids.

"You're hurting," Cole says to Dorian as he kneels beside Edric. Edric's left hand is utterly soaked with blood and his eyes flutter with pain.

"I'm fine, Cole," Dorian says, gingerly touching Edric's blood-slicked hand.

"No, no...not your pain. His pain. You hurt for him. Fear of losing, of being alone again. His hurt hurts you." Cole sheathes his daggers and Dorian glances up at him, unnerved by the boy's ability to worm into his mind. "Potions. We must ease the hurt, stop up the pain."

"I'm alright," Edric says gruffly, green eyes in slits. Dorian can tell he's concussed from the shield bash, and his hand is still bleeding, wet and red.

"You stepped in front of two armed men in platemail, you  _ignoramus,"_ Dorian says bitterly.

"You're okay, though?" Edric asks, right hand grasping at the sleeve of Dorian's robe.

"I need to look at your hand," Dorian retorts, boiling with rage. How could he be so  _reckless,_ so  _careless_  with his own life? How could he have the audacity to scare Dorian so much?

Dorian sees where the blood is coming from; Edric's pinky and ring finger on his left hand have been shortened by the blow of the sword. His left hand had been wrapped around his bow, the flexible wood a poor defense against steel. The sword splintering the bow, the strike angling downwards as Edric tried to jump back...

"Never do that again," Dorian says, surprised by the catch in his own voice. He rips off a piece of fabric from his robes and tries to stem some of the bleeding. 

Edric winces is pain, eyes rolling deliriously from concussion. "Someone had to step in front," Edric answers foggily, hissing as Dorian applies more pressure to his wounds. 

"Idiot," Dorian says, feeling his heart break cleanly in two.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a heads up: it's going to get more sexually explicit from here on out. You've been warned!
> 
> Enjoy

"We're camping here? Truly?" Dorian pulls his scarf tighter around his neck. "Can't we ever adventure somewhere warm? Preferably tropical."

"It's best if we rest here for tonight," Edric says. "Can you send up a flare?"

Dorian sighs heavily, shooting off a red flare of light. It bursts above their prospective camp and Edric rummages through his pack. Cassandra is looking tired and irritable, her surliness only magnified by Varric's presence.

Dorian supposes Emprise Du Lion is pretty. If he makes it out with all of his toes intact, he might even think fondly of it. The drama of the landscape--stark white snow, reflective ice, and foreboding rubble--makes it feel like some marvelous Fade dream.

Dorian suspects a hole in his boot and his socks are squelching with every step. He thinks of all the grand notions he'd first had about the Inquisition; it's moments like these where it all feels less than grand. The slow tedium of action contrasts against the heady declamation of words. Dorian's initial rush of joining this overwrought cause is tempered by the labors that keep it thriving.

Though Dorian complains, he doesn't regret a thing. He would sacrifice a toe or two for this great purpose. For Thedas.

For his Inquisitor.

 "You think this is cold, Dorian," Edric says, "I ought to take you to the Frostback Mountains sometime."

"A tempting offer, however I'm afraid I'll have to decline."

Edric pulls a flask from his hip and hands it to Dorian. "Here, drink this."

Dorian unscrews the cap and takes a whiff of its contents. His eyebrows rise sharply. " _Inquisitor_ ," he chides, "isn't against the rules to imbibe on duty?"

Edric smiles. "It's Chasind Sack Mead. It'll keep you warm."

Dorian takes a cautious sip of the liquor. It tastes like summertime and it's very, very strong. Not that that phases Dorian. He is Tevinter, after all. He takes a longer swig, enjoying the heavy honey flavor and undertones of apple. It course a hot path through his chest. He hands the flask back to Edric, who takes a generous drink himself.

 "And in case you've forgotten," Edric says, grinning, "I get to make the rules."

"Maker help us all," Dorian says, finding himself laughing.

The scouts come first, and then more infantry with supplies. The tents are pitched and Inquisition flag is flown around the perimeter of the camp. Dorian is surprised to see the sun already setting--it's disorienting how little daylight there is here.

Cassandra has taken off most burdensome pieces of her armor and Varric is puffing on a long wooden pipe. They sit around a blazing fire, yet it can hardly keep away the bone-deep chill. Dorian and Edric continue to pass the flask as scouts patrol the rim of the camp.

Sunset makes the wintry landscape look like a painting. Paleness and warmth contrast and black silhouettes of mountains carve across the watercolor sky. Dorian admires it more now that he’s warm with drink and firelight.

"Tomorrow we'll discuss a plan for assaulting the red templar camp," Edric says, finishing off the flask and tucking it into his coat pocket. "For tonight, Dorian and I will share a tent so Cassandra and Varric..."

Cassandra makes an appalled noise deep in her throat. Varric chokes on his drag of smoke.

"Maker, you're trying to kill me, Cadash," Varric coughs out.

"You will not touch me, dwarf. You will not look at me, you will not breathe on me," Cassandra says, voice harsh and steely.

"Don't have to tell me twice, Seeker." Varric takes a long draw from his pipe and exhales with a deep, smoky sigh.

They retire to their respective tents and Dorian is feeling in better spirits than before. He can hear Cassandra and Varric bickering in their tent and the whistling wind that blusters from the side of the mountain. His chest is suffused with warmth from the Chasind Sack Mead and he's finally managed to change his socks.

"That wasn't very nice of you," Dorian says, lounging on his bedroll as Edric unstraps his armor. "Those two will kill each other before the night is through."

Edric glances over his shoulder. "You mistake me; I've never been very nice."

"Oh?"

"I wanted you to myself tonight."

Edric frees himself of the last of his armor and then pulls off his undershirt off. His chest is scarred and defined, skin etched over muscles and garnished by soft brown hair. Dorian's eyes flick up and down his torso appreciatively. Edric starts working on his boots next, unlacing them with a tortuous slowness.

Dorians tuts softy. "How selfish. And here I thought the Inquisitor ought to be a paragon of virtue."

Edric tosses aside his boots and his hands hover over the lacing on his breeches. His smile is challenging "You'd be bored with niceness and virtue."

Dorian chuckles. "You know me too well."

Edric undoes the lacing on his breeches, just enough so Dorian can catch a glimpse to what lies underneath. Edric is already half-hard beneath the strain of his pants as he advances on Dorian. Dorian is content to let him, feeling himself stir at the hungry look in Edric's eye.

Edric settles himself between Dorian's thighs and his mouth finds Dorian's neck. Those teeth nip at his skin, and Dorian lets an airy moan escape him. Dorian's arms snake around Edric, hands splayed against his broad back.

Edric starts. "By the Stone, your hands are _freezing_."

"In case you haven't noticed, you've brought us to an icy tundra. Not all of us are blessed with dwarven constitution."

Edric takes Dorian's hand and plants a kiss in the center of his palm. "I'll just have to warm you up then."

Edric fiddles with the many straps and ties of Dorian's robes. He's gotten more adept at undoing them, but he still fumbles with the intricate, convoluted design.

"You don't like to make it easy, do you?" Edric quips as he finally locates the last clasp.

"No," Dorian agrees as Edric casts aside his heavy, knit robe. "I like making you work for it."

Edric's mouth finds his and it's a blur of tongue and teeth and skin. Dorian's nails blaze pathways down Edric's back and he moans into Dorian's mouth.

Edric strips himself of his breeches and then Dorian of his. Their kisses are blistering, yielding. The cold is all but forgotten as hot skin presses on skin. Dorian rolls on top of Edric and his mouth migrates southward to that defined chest. Dorian follows the trail of hair that leads him down, down, down. Edric's aching groans spur him, make his head swim with lust.

Edric's cock is just as thick and considerable as he is himself. Dorian strokes it a few time, savoring the yearning noise it earns.

A few more strokes and Edric is boneless beneath him, eyes closed and back arching into the bedroll. Dorian admires the uneven rise and fall of his chest, the pronouncement of his clenched jaw, the stubble that's sprung up after just two days of traveling.

Dorian jumps when he hears a sudden crash from outside their tent. He pauses, hand still curled around Edric's cock.

A loud voice rises over the wintry gale of Emprise Du Lion:

" _So help me, dwarf_!"

Another crash follows and a shout. Dorian and Edric are frozen in silence.

They wait for more shouts, but there is only the alarmed chatter of the scouts on duty, Dorian is the first to break the silence. “Should we, perhaps, go see what the matter is?”

Edric’s brow furrows. He glances down, appraising their nakedness and his own erection. “They’ll be alright,” he says, fingers carding through Dorian's hair.

“You’re right,” Dorian says, leaning down to kiss him, “you’re not a very nice man."


	6. Chapter 6

Dorian thumbs the crinkled note thoughtfully. He re-reads the blocky, bold handwriting for the umpteenth time.

_Dorian,_

_I have something for you. Come to my quarters after supper._

_-Edric_

It’s strange how something so simple can leave his focus in shambles. He folds the note and tucks it aside in the hopes that it will stop plaguing his mind. He tries to turn back to his book, but his afternoon reading is utterly spoiled.

Dorian gazes out of the window and watches the soldiers spar below. They whoop and cheer and wipe the sweat from their foreheads despite the mountainous chill. Dorian spectates their sport, fingers drumming on the book splayed open before him.

Iron Bull and his Chargers are present, whooping right along with the common infantry. Dorian can’t hear exactly what they shout—only a dull racket through the glass.

Dorian thinks of how he’s made no friends since joining the Inquisition. Truthfully, he didn’t expect to, but the reality of it still stings somehow. He is a Tevinter and hatred of him by Southerners is as natural as air; he would have been more than a little taken aback had he been received with warm smiles and open arms. Dorian accepts this truth and tells himself to bury the melancholy notion. He could not have expected warm feelings from the motley group Edric has brought together.

Vivienne is a remarkable woman, and had she been born Tevinter she would’ve made a frightfully formidable Archon. Dorian can hear the barbs masked behind her words and the honeyed poison she slips within endearments. She seems to care little for Dorian and so he lets her alone. Their ideologies create an insurmountable rift between them. He doesn’t care for Sera; her practical jokes and immaturity and cutting words irk him. He can match her acerbic wit, but he doesn’t relish her digs or her twisting manner of speech.

Cassandra is a force of nature, but she sees Dorian as frivolous. They have little in common, and Dorian can hardly foresee them becoming fast friends. He likes Varric well enough, but he’s distant, always off writing letters or scribbling some story at his desk.

Cullen is one of the few he gets on with. Their weekly chess game is a bright spot in the dark haze of passing time. He’s also a pleasure to look at, his brow furrowed in concentration and that uneven stubble dotting his jaw.

Dorian is wary of Bull. They are of clashing cultures and opposing peoples, and Dorian waits for Bull to denounce him. Dorian is still perplexed that it hasn’t occurred. When Dorian even broaches the subject during their travels, Bull has the audacity to chuckle at him, as if he were some charming gnat. It’s galling and infuriating and Dorian doesn’t know what to make of the Qunari spy who insists on telling the truth.

The rest of Edric’s patchwork allies don’t seem to fit with him. He watches the Inquisition grow from his alcove in the library. He sees the tide of the world shift and change from the tower window, feeling small and unimportant as the Inquisition sprawls beneath him. As the soldiers spar on the grass, churned into mud from their rigorous activity, Dorian feels something inside him twist painfully.

He’s been alone for so long, he thinks he should be used to it for now. He spent many months traveling after he left Tevinter with no place to call his own and not a friend at his side. Even when he fell into poverty, forced to sell his birthright, he trudged on alone and did not ask for help. He would exchange letters with Felix when he could, but now even he was gone.

He feels restless and so he stands, beginning to pace. He runs his fingertip along the leather-bound spines of the books. Burying himself in study has helped, but he still can’t help but feel as though he is just watching from afar.

Dorian sits himself back down again and unfolds the note. Smoothing out the parchment, he reads the simple message once more. He can’t seem to help himself.

By the time supper comes and goes, Dorian’s thoughts are in shreds. He’s decided he hates surprises.

After forcing down overcooked rice and fish, he crosses through the main hall, past the Orlesian nobles in their gilded masks and the craftsmen who tinker away at the walls. Scouts and soldiers come and go, all walking tall with duty and direction. Dorian maneuvers past them, his purpose singular as he carves a path to Edric’s quarters.

The door creaks open and Dorian steps gingerly up the rickety stairs. The disrepair of the hallway to Edric's quarters is a jarring reminder of how far Skyhold has come from a corpse of a castle, and how far they have yet to go.

Dorian debates just going in, but he decides to knock instead. He’s met with a muffled _come in._

Edric is sitting at his desk. It was built with human proportions in mind and he looks oddly small behind it. Sometimes Dorian forgets just how small he is; it’s hard to remember when he stands for so many immense things.

“You’re here,” Edric says, glancing up at him with those green eyes.

“You said you had something for me?”

“Right to the point,” Edric says, smiling.

“Well, you see, I’m not particularly fond of surprises. All that long, drawn-out waiting. I’m much more in favor of instant gratification.” Dorian seats himself on the edge of Edric’s bed, noting the clothes pooling around it and the unmade sheets.

“I’ll remember that,” Edric answers. He leans down to rummage through his desk and pulls out a box neatly wrapped in brown paper. He stands from his desk and crosses the room to sit beside Dorian. “Here,” he says, proffering it to him.

Dorian takes it cautiously and peels the paper. Beneath the brown paper there is a white box and Dorian removes the cover carefully. Folded neatly within the box are robes. They are dyed a deep, jewel-toned red and they shine lustrously in the firelight. Dorian runs a hand across the fabric and it glides pleasingly against his palm. He also feels a thrum of power from it, traces of magic that spark and sing against his fingertips.

“I figured you could use a new robe. I had Josephine call in a few favors. She had a Tevinter seamstress make this with the finest cloth. Fade-touched fabric was woven in, so it should be an exceptional catalyst for magic.”

Dorian doesn’t look at Edric, just runs his hand against the silken material. “I can’t accept this,” Dorian finds himself saying.

Edric’s brow creases. “What?”

“I can’t accept this,” Dorian repeats. He neatly tucks the robe back into the box and gropes for where he put down the lid.

“And why not?” Edric asks. He looks almost amused at Dorian’s refusal, as if he’s being some difficult child that has yet to know what’s best.

Dorian finds himself unreasonably upset. “I’m not a pet, you know,” he snaps.

“What?” Edric frowns, placing a hand on Dorian’s forearm. “I just wanted to give you something.”

Dorian recoils from the touch and stands from the bed. “I’m not your mistress that waits on your beck and call. That lounges around your bloody _palace_ until you come back from your business and need an itch scratched. I don’t want your lavish gifts or favors. That’s never what I wanted.”

Edric looks crestfallen, yet also wholly confused. “That’s not what it was. I just—“

“Ah, yes, why don’t you inform me how it _really_ is, Inquisitor?”

Edric looks as though he’s been hit. His shoulders slump forward and his hands fall limp beside him. His eyes are hidden from Dorian as he sits dejectedly on his unmade bed.

Dorian senses an aching, panicked feeling rise up in his chest. He draws a deep breath through his nose. “I’ll take my leave,” he says. He turns to go and the brashness of his words strike him as he makes it to the bottom step.

 _Why did I say those things?_ Dorian thinks as the door slams shut behind him. Another thought follows on its heels:

_Did I mean them?_


	7. Chapter 7

Bird shit.

Dorian has stepped in bird shit. He sits down and examines the bottom of his boot with a resigned sigh. It feels oddly appropriate, given the state of things.

He and Edric haven’t spoken and he’s had a week to agonize over every word. To examine each excruciating detail, pick it apart until it’s pulled into a thousand separate pieces. His studies are all but halted, and so he drinks. He sneaks bottles from the stores, feeling like a teenager again, smuggling bottles from the Pavus wine cellar. He drinks himself into a stupor at night, listening to the bird’s squawking one story up.

Maker, why does Leliana insist on keeping them _inside_?

His head is thick with a hangover and his eyes are rimmed with heavy bags. The library feels like his cell, and Skyhold his prison. Dorian doesn’t know where the key is, and doesn’t care to look for it. Instead, he lets himself wallow. He’s good at wallowing.

He’s still staring at the white splotch of bird shit on the bottom of his shoe. He’ll have to clean it later. Ideally while he’s insensibly drunk.

He sighs again and leans back in his chair. He still isn’t entirely sure why he said those things. He knows a part of him felt that way—like he was being _kept_. Dorian sees the way the nobles look at him, how Mother Giselle looks at him. They whisper of the pet magister, leashed to the Inquisitor. The sordid gossip circles around him like a ripple. He hears the shock and speculation, the revilement and even envy. The morally bankrupt Tevinter sidles up to the Inquisitor for favor and influence; it’s so obvious that Dorian wonders how Edric can’t see it.

He wonders why he seems so good at burning everything he touches.

He can’t sit in the library for another minute. So he stands and makes his way down the stairs to the ground floor.

Dorian exits into the main hall, only to see a crowd gathered around the throne. He’s made it just in time for a judgment, it seems. He edges through the small throng, shouldering past dignitaries and servants alike.

The Mayor of Crestwood is a pitiful figure, slumped and defeated. The two guards at his side hold him upright but his head still hangs heavily. His brokenness is contrasted against Edric’s own easy, lounging posture. He leans against the armrest of his throne as if he were born to it. His ankle rests across his knee as he considers the mayor carefully. The crowd around Dorian hangs on Edric’s every word; this Edric is different than the man that smokes his pipe on unmade sheets, who smiles with hazy eyes.

This Edric is rigid and wrathful and justice. He’s miles away from Dorian, perched atop that imposing throne.

“War forces terrible choices on us, but justice demands its due. Mayor Gregory Dedrick, I sentence you to a swift death.”

There is a flutter of gasps and hushed whispers. The Mayor raises his head, mouth set in a grim, weary line. “The day has come at last. Maker forgive my sins.”

The crowd parts as the soldiers shove him towards his death. Edric rises from his throne, and the people allow him to pass. Dozens of eyes follow him as he walks through the tunnel of spectators. He doesn’t meet any of their eyes and after he passes they follow him like a processional.

Dorian knows what’s to come next, yet he finds himself being herded along with the crowd. They leave the main hall and down the steps to the courtyard. Cullen and a small complement of soldiers are awaiting them as Gregory Dedrick is led to the platform. Edric takes his place beside Cullen, and the two exchange brief greetings.

It’s a beautiful day—blue sky and burningly crisp mountain air. The ravens that were perched upon the platform fly away with cries of indignation as Gregory Dedrick is led up the steps. The soldiers push him to his knees and he goes without resistance.

Dorian is watching Edric’s back; he stands rigid and unflinching. Dorian supposes he’s seen too many executions to waver in the face of one more. Dorian wonders how many executions he’s performed personally, in his past as a Carta member. Edric doesn’t talk much of it, but Dorian suspects it was bloody.

The executioner takes up her sword. The crowd is hushed and expectant, all secretly thrilled at the prospect of blood. It’s the same everywhere, Dorian thinks. Some are just more honest in their bloodlust than others.

The Mayor doesn’t raise his eyes to look out upon the throng before him. He doesn’t cry out or ask for forgiveness. He just hangs his head, as If the yoke of guilt he bears is too much.

The sword swings, swift and decisive. The crowd gasps with horror and exultation. His body falls to the side as his head rolls away from his body. It’s a gruesome tableau, thick blood staining the platform and his slumped, headless body. Dorian looks at Edric’s back and he still stands as a statue. He and Cullen exchange a few more words before Edric turns, crossing in front of the platform, and heads towards the stairs to the great hall. Dorian watches him go as the people around his disperse.

Edric is nearly halfway up the steps before Dorian decides to follow.

Dorian pushes through several bodies to get to the stone steps. Edric slips into the great hall and Dorian speeds his pace to try and catch up with him. He’s quick for having such short legs, Dorian thinks.

Dorian sees Edric nimbly evade the greeting dignitaries and weave towards his bedroom. The door closes soundly behind him.

Dorian brushes his hand against the door handle, and finds himself pausing. He isn’t sure what he’s doing, or if he’s welcome. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. Truthfully, he doesn’t know how any of this should go. He’s useless as a newborn babe fumbling for his first steps.

But his hands turn the handle and his feet carry him up the stairs. He straightens his back and tries to walk with purpose.

When he makes it up to Edric’s quarters, he sees Edric sitting out on his balcony, a cloud of smoke hanging hazily around his head.

Dorian approaches, knowing that his footsteps are heard by Edric’s keen ears. But Edric doesn’t stir, just continues to puff on his pipe.

Dorian pauses at the glass door that leads to the balcony. He leans against it, taking a long breath of chill air. “I’m not very good at this, you know,” Dorian begins. The words feel unnatural on his tongue and he fingers the sleeve of his robes anxiously.

Edric continues to sit silently, smoking. Dorian sighs and tries again. “I was an ass, before. It seems to be the only thing I excel at.”

“No,” Edric says finally, not turning to look at him. “You had a point. I didn’t listen.”

Dorian’s brows rise in surprise.

“It’s strange,” Edric says, still facing out towards the picturesque skyline, “having all of this. Before, I was happy to have three square a day, some ale, and a soft bed. Sometimes I forget at all the eyes upon me, watching and judging and gossiping.” Edric leans back in his chair and puts his ankle across his knee. “I coaxed some of the rumors about us from Mother Giselle. Do they bother you?”

“Truthfully,” Dorian says, “yes. I’m muddying your reputation, spoiling the shining Herald of Andraste with my corrupt Tevinter touch.”

“You couldn’t corrupt me if you tried,” Edric laughs. He finally looks over his shoulders, mouth creased in a smile. “But you do have a knack for bringing out the fool in me.”

“That much was apparent,” Dorian says, a tentative smile answering Edric’s.

“I’m sorry,” Edric says, meeting his eyes. “We’re equals. You’re not my underling or my employee or my kept paramour. And I swear to never treat you otherwise.”

“That is…” Dorian runs a hand through his hair, but he can’t find the words to finish.

“Speechless again,” Edric laughs. “Pull up a chair, if you like.”

Dorian does so, and settles himself next to Edric. They sit in companionable silence for a while, before Dorian feels himself compelled to speak.

“May I try some of that?”

Edric looks amused but he hands the pipe over to Dorian. Dorian notes the shortened fingers on Edric’s left hand as he proffers the wooden pipe. Dorian holds it awkwardly as he brings it to his lips. The burning elfroot singes his lungs after he takes a drag, smoke puffing out of him as he coughs.

“That’s putrid,” Dorian says, “I can’t fathom why you smoke it so much.”

“It reminds me of home,” Edric, taking back his pipe. He runs his thumb over its coarsely carved length.

Dorian watches him for a moment. “You don’t think of Skyhold as your home?”

“No,” Edric says. He takes a long drag from his pipe then puckers his lips. He lets out perfect rings of smoke that float away and dissipate in the mountain breeze. “I might,” he adds, “maybe one day.”

“One day?”

“A home needs a family,” Edric says, half-smiling as he gazes out towards the endless expanse of snow-capped mountains. Dorian can’t quite place the feeling those words evoke in him.


	8. Chapter 8

The room smells of sweat and skin and sex. It’s dark, save for a few guttering candles and the pale starlight that leaks through the glass doors to Edric’s balcony. Dorian edges closer to Edric, using his free hand pull the sheets over his bare chest.

“Cold?” Edric asks, turning to look at Dorian. Dorian examines the dark outline of his features, eyes shining dimly from the shadowed contours of his face.

“Well, we did let the fire to go out,” Dorian says, peering over the hearth. There are but a few glowing embers amidst the ashes, dull and orange and faintly visible.

“I think we were both a bit distracted,” Edric replies, fingers running lightly over Dorian’s scalp. Dorian closes his eyes and tilts his head up towards Edric’s hand, relishing the sensation. “I’ll remedy that for you immediately, _salroka_.”

Edric rises from the bed and makes his way towards the neat stack of wood beside the hearth. Dorian watches his bare ass with an amused expression as Edric arranges the kindling. Once he’s arranged the wood, he turns to Dorian. “A little fire, if you could?”

“Oh, very well,” Dorian says, and with a small flick of his hand the fire comes to life.

Edric puts his hands on his hips, soaking up the warmth from the fire. Dorian sits up, leaning his back against the headboard. “ _Salroka_?” he asks, raising a brow. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m not well-versed in dwarven phrases.”

Edric makes his way back to the bed and climbs in beside him. “It translates literally to ‘one at my side’ but it’s used interchangeably for friends and lovers,” he says, nestling himself into the crook of Dorian’s arm. Dorian adjusts to accommodate him, feeling the tickle of his hair against his shoulder.

“I see,” Dorian says. “Not a very sentimental people, dwarves?”

“No,” Edric chuckles.

“Is this the part where we share syrupy pillow talk? Past lovers, our greatest fears, earth-shattering confessions and all of that?” Dorian quips lightly as Edric curls into him.

“Pillow talk, then?” Edric says, placing a warm, broad palm against the center of Dorian’s chest. “Alright, _salroka_. Let me think…what did you want to be, when you were younger?”

“What did I want to be?” Dorian repeats, digesting the question slowly. It’s strange, he hadn’t much been allowed his own wants growing up. His adolescence seemed almost always to revolve around what he _should_ be. And that was the perfect mage, groomed and molded to one day become Archon. The question of _want_ was always a dangerous one, and one Dorian had indulged in little in his youth. “Rather an odd question.”

“You’re evading,” Edric says, easily batting aside his equivocations.

“Fine, but you’re going to think me very silly.”

“I promise, I won’t.”

Dorian sighs. “I wanted to be a musician. I even taught myself to play the lute. It wasn’t until later I realized I was a dreadful singer. Alas, I had more talent with a fireball than an instrument.”

“So that explains the lute you keep tucked behind your chair.”

“Oh, that dusty old thing? I found it lying around; I think it adds charm to my little nook, yes?”

“How come I’ve never heard you play?” Edric asks, fingers skating across Dorian’s chest.

“Did you not catch the ‘dreadful singer’ bit? I haven’t touched a lute in years.”

“I’m onto you, Dorian Pavus,” Edric retorts, and Dorian can feel the low humming of laughter in Edric’s chest.

“Now, if you’re quite done, I believe it’s my turn.” Dorian looks down at Edric, curled up into his chest. The sight of him there, body wrapped around his, is still jarring sometimes. Dorian had understood sex and pleasure and desire; these things he used to pursue quietly in Tevinter, slinking down dark corridors and exiting through back doors. It was the intimacy they had carved from simple desire—it was something stirring and frightening. It was something Dorian had never known before, holding someone so close he can feel their inner workings—the rush of blood in their veins, the rise and fall of their chest, the steadiness of their pulse.

He’d never held a man like that before, never dared to. It was to toe a dangerous line, to take a risk that might end in ruin. He still felt the passing urge to recoil every now and then, and he had to remind himself that Tevinter was leagues away. He had torn himself away from his old life, left it to die several continents away. It held no power over him anymore.

He studies Edric, eyes roaming over the stubble on his jaw and long lashes. He’d recently had his hair trimmed, and it was shaven closely at the sides. His nose had been broken several times, and it protruded at an unnatural angle from his face. He was comelier than Dorian had previously thought a dwarf could be; his nose, despite the bulge of brokenness, was shapelier than any he’d seen and his brows were thick but neat over his deep-set green eyes. His face was mostly free of scars, save for the faintest trace of one across the bridge of his nose. The most noticeable scar he bore was one that curved jaggedly across the side of his throat.

Dorian reached down and gently traced the very corner of the scar. “How did you acquire this one?”

Edric clears his throat and begins. He’s not much of a storyteller, lacking in flair and theatrics. He tells things simply, without embellishment or addition.

“It was more recent, roughly a year before the Conclave. Small of amounts of lyrium had been continually going missing from our shipments. It was obvious that someone within the Carta was siphoning off small amounts for themselves, probably making some profit on the side. They sent me to weed out whoever it was.” Edric shifts against Dorian’s chest to a more comfortable position. “They had covered up their tracks decently, but if you pass enough coin into the right hands, most people can be bought. I finally got a supplier to give up the information; it had been my second cousin, Aldrin. He was always a clever bastard, but I hadn’t thought him capable of it. He was a miner, not a warrior. Good with tools and a pickaxe, but had no gift with a sword.”

Edric clears his throat again and continues. “I was a day’s travel from home and it was late; didn’t want to be traveling at night and I didn’t fear Aldrin, so I bought a bed at an inn. I knew he was a poor fighter at best, didn’t think he would have the stones to come after me.”

“And what would happen to him, once you relayed this information?”

“No one crosses the Carta,” Edric says grimly.

“He was your…second cousin, you said?”

“It was business. I liked him well enough, grew up with him. But he made a mistake. He knew the consequences.”

“Isn’t that a bit cold?” Dorian ventures.

“It’s business,” Edric repeats, with a tone that suggests this was the insurmountable truth. “You make it your business to kill your countrymen. You wouldn’t let your personal feelings influence that.”

“Fair point,” Dorian concedes after a moment. “So I’m assuming he made an attempt on your life?”

“Yes—supplier tipped him off. He managed to sneak into my room and get a knife to my throat. His hand was shaking too badly to do a clean job of it. He dropped the knife when he saw that I wasn’t dead, fell to his knees, shaking all over.”

“And what did you do with him?”

“I was still in shock, not really feeling how deep it was. I killed him—snapped his neck. Then I started bleeding out, screaming for help. The innkeeper’s wife kept me alive long enough to see a healer.”

“What a cheerful tale.”

Edric adjusts against him, neck cracking as he stretches it. “You asked,” he answers simply. He draws the sheets more tightly around them and lets his eyelids slip closed.

“I have a hard time picturing you then,” Dorian finds himself saying.

Edric opens one eye, peering up at him curiously. “Killing people? It’s not so different now.”

“True enough,” Dorian says, not entirely sure where his words are leading him. “You just don’t seem like the executioner type, if you don’t mind me saying.” And truly, Dorian can’t make heads or tails of his chosen profession. The Edric he’s come to know is so different from the Edric that sits in the seat of judgment—that plays the role of judge, jury, and executioner. The Edric he’s discovered is quiet and reserved, with gentle hands and soft eyes. He likes to whittle and he likes to collect oddly colored stones. He can sit in the Skyhold gardens for hours at a time, lazily smoking his pipe and watching the warblers splash in the birdbath.

“I was good at it,” Edric says, closing his eyes again. “What I did and who I am are different things.”

“I was under the impression that those were synonymous. Isn’t it what you do that determines who you are?”

Edric takes a long breath, letting the air filter slowly through his nose. Finally he releases it in a long gust, which breezes across Dorian’s chest. He’s silent for a time, and Dorian supposes that he must be collecting his thoughts. He waits in the pensive quiet for Edric to speak, and when he finally does, his voice is low and hoarse.

“I didn’t want to kill Aldrin. He was a good man; a little foolish, maybe, but decent, and a friend. That is who I am. But that isn’t the way of things. One of us had to die that night. He knew this, and so did I. It was business, plain and simple.”

“That seems a convenient excuse,” Dorian answers, and the words are sharper than he intends. He feels Edric bristle under his touch, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Maybe you’re right, _salroka,_ ” Edric says in a near-whisper.

His hand begins to sketch imaginary shapes upon Dorian’s chest and Dorian feels himself uncoil at his touch. Edric leans up to catch Dorian’s mouth with his own, his tongue coaxing and inviting, teeth grazing Dorian’s lower lip.

Dorian decides to shelve the conversation for later.

 


End file.
